


Turn Falling Into Flight

by thefairfleming



Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: F/M, more ridiculous modern AUs from yours truly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: I saw a hilarious Tumblr post with a TRULY heinous dragon fireplace, and WAS INSPIRED. More vaguely context-free Modern Aristos AU.





	Turn Falling Into Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nami64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nami64/gifts).



They never do this sort of thing.

Well, they do the  _ actual _ thing- sex- plenty, but this? Wine and a roaring fire, sleet beating against the windows while they make out like a couple of teenagers on the living room floor? 

This is new. 

Giggling, Lizzie breaks off their kiss, her head thumping back to the nest of blankets and pillows spread on the hardwood.

“This is very Mills & Boon of us,” she teases as she works on the buttons of his shirt, Henry’s arms braced on either side of her. “The full Barbara Cartland, even.”

The firelight plays on the planes and hollows of his face as he smiles down at her. “You’re the one who suggested we sit by the fire.”

“Because I was cold, not because I thought you were going to ravish me,” she replies, prim even as she slides her hands inside his half-open shirt, the hair on his chest rasping against her palms.

“This is just kissing, not ravishment,” Henry says, and then he lowers his head, catching her mouth in a kiss that makes her toes curl. “Yet.”

“Mmm, promises, promises,” she hums when they part, but she’s practically vibrating with how turned on she is, her stocking-clad foot sliding up his calf. 

They’d missed this part of courtship, Lizzie supposes, getting married for a complicated morass of reasons involving family and business mixed with a desire neither of them had wanted to acknowledge. It somehow seems fitting that it’s only now, six months into their marriage, two months after moving out of Henry’s mother’s townhouse in Kensington, they’re getting down to the half-dressed snogging on the floor part of things.

Not even the ridiculous jazz he’d put on before he’d joined her here by the fireplace can put a damper on her mood, and she wonders if she should make “Wine By The Fire” a nightly event here in their new flat. At least for the rest of the winter.

Although when Henry kisses her neck slowly, his hand sliding up her ribs under her jumper, Lizzie wonders why she should limit this to one season. They can open the windows in the summer, maybe use candles instead of firewood…

She lets out a shuddering sigh when his fingers brush over her nipple through the lace of her bra, lifting her head to kiss him again, hotter this time, deeper, her tongue sliding along his, and Henry groans against her mouth, pressing his hips tight to hers.

“Fucking death of me,” he mutters as he pulls away, and Lizzie gives a smug smile before languidly lifting her arms over her head and letting him slide her jumper up her body. She sits up slightly so that he can pull it off, and as she does, she notes the hot look in Henry’s eyes, the way his gaze skates over her body, the slight trembling of his hands. 

Yes, Wine By The Fire, every night, even in the middle of sodding July. 

He tosses her jumper near the sofa before covering her with his body again, hand coming up to hold her face, his thumb at the corner of her mouth, urging her lips open for him, her legs wrapping around his hips. 

When they pull apart this time, Henry slides lower, unclasping the front of her bra with surprising dexterity before pressing a kiss there between her breasts, his mouth hot on her skin.

Then he’s sliding lower still, and Lizzie pulls her lower lip between her teeth, legs moving restlessly on the blanket as he pushes her skirt up. 

She’d nearly frozen her bum off today, choosing lacy stay-up stockings over tights, but it’s worth it now when his hand curls around the bare skin of her thigh and he presses a kiss to her center through the damp silk of her knickers.

Gasping, Lizzie arches her back, her hands falling to the back of his head. He’s good at this, too good for a man who seems so reserved in so many ways, and she’s been tempted to ask just where he picked up this particular skill.

But so long as he’s applying it to  _ her _ currently, she decides she doesn’t really care. 

And she loves when he does it like this, kissing and teasing her with the silk barrier still between his mouth and her flesh. By the time he does divest her of her knickers, she knows she’ll be nearly out of her mind, and she smiles as she settles in, concentrating on the feel of his mouth, the softness of his hair under her fingers, the crackling of the fire and the soft shushing of the sleet.

And then she opens her eyes.

Staring down at her from over the fireplace is one of the largest- and most unexpected- conflicts of her new marriage.

That fucking dragon.

Lust gives way to irritation as she stares at that monstrosity, a “special feature” Henry had had installed during the one bloody week she’d left him to his own devices in the flat. There were dragons in his family crest, and he was mad for the silly things. You could find them embroidered on the of handkerchief, embossed on the corner of his business cards. He even had sterling silver dragon cufflinks, for fuck’s sake. 

All of that was fine- Lizzie had her own family’s white rose on several things- but the fireplace dragon remained a bridge too far, and looking at it now, she knew the orgasm that had seemed so close only moments before was now rapidly receding in the distance.

“Stop,” she says, pushing at his shoulders and sitting up.

Henry sits back on his heels, his shirt hanging open, his expression both hazy and confused. “What is it?” he pants, and Lizzie scowls, reaching for her jumper.

“I can’t do that here. Not with your mate Puff watching.”

She jerks her head at the stone dragon coiling over the fireplace, and Henry takes a beat longer than he should before following her gaze. It’s slightly gratifying, how muddled he appears to be, but it’s not enough to make her want to lie back down and let him get back to what he was doing. Not if she has to stare at that...thing while he does it.

“Right,” Henry says slowly, and then to Lizzie’s surprise, he lunges forward on his knees, catching her around the waist.

She shrieks as he pulls her back to the blankets, this time rolling so that he’s on his back, Lizzie half sprawled on top of him. 

“We can do it like this then,” he says, and Lizzie laughs, bracing her hands on his chest even as desire flares low in her belly again at what he’s suggesting. He’s gone down on her dozens of times, but they’ve never... _ she’s _ never...

“Then he’ll just be staring at my bum,” she says, but she’s already inching up his body, Henry’s hands on her hips, urging her on.

“He would never,” Henry assures her solemnly, his blue eyes serious as she settles over him, pulling her skirt up and out of the way. “He is a gentleman.”

Henry’s  hands curl around her thighs then and he lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to the bare skin above her stocking. “And his name isn’t Puff, it’s Vortigern.”

“His name is ‘In The Rubbish Heap By Monday If You Ever Want To Shag Me Again,’” she replies, but then his mouth is moving closer to where she wants him and her eyes are drifting closed as she sighs.

“We can negotiate,” he murmurs against her, and Lizzie doesn’t bother pointing out that this is a  _ very _ unfair tactic of said negotiation.

They both know she’ll get her way.


End file.
